


This love shit is work

by blcwriter



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: (offscreen) - Freeform, Childhood Trauma, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Originally Posted on LiveJournal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-28
Updated: 2015-06-28
Packaged: 2018-04-06 16:11:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4228356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blcwriter/pseuds/blcwriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For this weekend’s <a class="i-ljuser-profile" href="http://jim-and-bones.livejournal.com/profile"><img class="i-ljuser-userhead"/></a><a class="i-ljuser-username" href="http://jim-and-bones.livejournal.com/">jim_and_bones</a> ’ flash fic <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/jim_and_bones/361536.html?thread=1#t12405312">“FML” prompt-fest</a>, (comm members only) for the prompt “Today, after work, I came home to my boyfriend sleeping on the couch. Feeling romantic, I started to undo his pants. My reward was him waking up and kneeing me in the eye. FML.”  Bones’ voice is a bit more corn-pone/Southern Gothic than I usually write him—IDEFK where this weirdness came from.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This love shit is work

Author: blcwriter  
Title: This love shit is work  
Rating: PG-13 for language, some preparatory m/m sexual imagery  
Summary: For this weekend’s [](http://jim-and-bones.livejournal.com/profile)[**jim_and_bones**](http://jim-and-bones.livejournal.com/)  ’ flash fic [“FML” prompt-fest](http://community.livejournal.com/jim_and_bones/361536.html?thread=1#t12405312), (comm members only) for the prompt “Today, after work, I came home to my boyfriend sleeping on the couch. Feeling romantic, I started to undo his pants. My reward was him waking up and kneeing me in the eye. FML.” Bones’ voice is a bit more corn-pone/Southern Gothic than I usually write him—IDEFK where this weirdness came from.

The apartment was dark—though not pitch-black thanks to all of Jim’s PADDs and gadgets, glowing little red and green lights of their various charges at various heights. I didn’t need fucking night vision—it was like I had little electronic fireflies hovering on every damn surface to keep me from banging into tables and other immovable objects.

Which—speaking of—Jim’s piglet-snore came from the living room’s corner. Given the choice between the extra thirty-five steps to the bedroom or collapsing like a Williams heroine onto the couch, palm to his forehead as he declaimed his daily triumphs over those who’d tried to defeat him, “motherfucking vanquish me, Bones!” Jim’d take the couch nice times out of ten. And then promptly fall asleep because he worked hard at his classes and jobs and the sections he taught-- not that anyone was allowed to _know_ that and he glared at me if I said so. In sleep, that Southern belle victory chant sounded more like a Rigellian hog rooting for truffles, but then again, I knew all that whining and posturing covered up more issues than the DSM-XII, whether or not he’d talk about them while I got to bitch and he told me things weren’t solely my fault or it took two to tango or other consoling wise shit I already knew but still— it felt revealing to hear it from somebody who meant something, for whatever reason. Even if he did snore like a buzzsaw.

Well—not exactly. His snore was more like a cute little wheeze, punctuated with the occasional fuckin’ adorable snorfle. Not that I’d _ever_ tell him that. The kid didn’t need anything more to add to his ego—he already smirked too much when people (girls, mostly, I had no idea why they were all so goddamned invested) figured out we were “finally” together. As if two men can’t be best friends without them inevitably having sex and falling in love. Some people are just goddamned incurable romantics—I mean, really, I tell you.

“Lights, forty percent,” I said softly, and yep, there he was—jacket not even all the way off, still tangled up the arm flopped over the edge, one boot on the foot still on the floor and the other leg (and socked foot) thrown up over the leg of the couch. At least he’d taken me seriously about no shoes on the upholstery, godfuckingdamnit, because if he stained my Gramp’s antique leather Davenport? That rimjob he wanted, well, forget it, bucko. His bare arm covered his eyes and his t-shirt rode up just enough to expose that pale stomach—soft in relaxation where normally it’d be taut, lean muscles, flexing as Jim illustrated some point or other, his whole body in motion. James T. Kirk—his middle name should’ve been hyperkinetic.

I shoved my bag next to the door, toed off my boots, shed my jacket, made my way over. Normally—hah, there was nothing normal, just awesome, as Jim was wont to say though I’d never admit it—we both passed out after sex, too tired from classes and clinics and work to do more’n eat, sleep, study and fuck. Not that those were bad things—life’s basic necessities, even, at least to get us through school, but it wasn’t often I was awake when Jim wasn’t, at least and not occupied with frantically studying for something whilst also shoving food down my gullet. Leonard Multi-tasking Sorry Motherfucker Horatio McCoy. Well, except for the hot-ass boyfriend asleep on the couch.

The outer curve of Jim’s tricep—pale and slightly glowing in the half-light, listen to me, slightly glowing, like he was a fairy or something—was tempting—and I realized that as much as we’d both agreed… yes, we were going to do this, the whole not-just-best-friends-thing. But we’d been so busy with classes and all the regular bullshit that while we hung out plenty—did things all the time-- though if I wanted to do something with Chapel, well, Jim just wasn’t the type to get jealous—we’d never done anything vaguely courtly or romantic.

Not that Jim’d admit to wanting anything like that. Me, either—but I was starting to learn that full speed ahead wasn’t a bad motto to have, much as I made fun—but wasn’t that what I did, boarding that shuttle? Try as I might to deny it, I was only a thoughtful, planning sort when I was sober or too fucking scared to do naught but re-tread where others had gone. I’d had more’n my own share of knock-down, drag-outs that’d left me fucked up and hung over, even if they were mostly emotional fights and not physical ones. But when I was just reacting to shit on my feet, trying to keep up with what was getting thrown at me and not overthink things—like that night Jim’d kissed me and hell, I’d just wanted to kiss him back so I stuffed down the panic and _did_ \-- well, things usually worked out alright. Jocelyn— _that_ relationship I’d planned from the get-go. Jim Kirk? You couldn’t get more random than getting shoved down next to some guy by a hamhanded ‘Fleeter with no idea how to deal with aviaphobics. Unless you were some kind of tinhat who believed in romantic fate and soulmates. No thank you. This love shit is work.

But in any event—there Jim was, all flopped out on the sofa when there was a damned comfortable bed in the bedroom—and not even mine. The bed was his, since he’d made me toss mine as “too fucking lumpy and tiny, Bones,” grinning as I called him Princess and lobbed a bag of frozen peas at his head, which of course had devolved into a foodfight and handjobs with the oil out on the counter, not that I was complaining.

Still-- damned if I’d understand why he slept on the couch. And damned if he didn’t look both edible and a little bit precious, both tucked up and sprawled around in that contradictory way that he had, his eyes shielded against the dark of the room and half his weight flopping down toward the floor. If I didn’t intervene soon in some regard, he’d turn over, mutter and grumble at something—he never would say, just look surprised at his surroundings, the weirdo—and fall off the couch onto the floor, though at least I’d managed to stop laughing my ass off after the first six times it happened.

As if my thought prompted it, Jim grumbled at something and hitched up one knee, contorted himself in this bizarre position that only someone as skinny, fit as a hand-to-hand teacher and frankly, freakishly limber as him could manage without pulling something. And still, that one boot was down on the floor. Shit. I was gonna have to yell at him less if I’d made that much of an impression on him, even unconscious.

“Jim,” I said, kneeling down next to the couch and tugging the boot off, tossing it to the side. No response-- no surprise, frankly. The kid had the alarm turned up so damned loud in the bedroom that on the one lovely occasion I’d been woken by it, I’d thought I had a marching band going off in my ear. _“Sorry, Bones, kinda need it, I sleep kinda deep,”_ he’d shrugged, then slapped the thing silent and promptly rolled onto the floor, whining at the suggestion of sunlight coming in through the blinds. Of course, I’d given him nine kinds of hell and no kind of morning blowjob, so he’d switched over to a subdermal alarm, thank all the ministers of grace sent to defend me from narcoleptic academy roommates.

“Jim,” I tried again, and ran my fingers over the exposed, fine skin on the underside of his arm, the scant, light hairs raising slightly in the wake of my touch. He muttered something unintelligible and turned sideways, away, but he was deep in whatever catnap he was having, complete with grumbles and twitches, funny noises and faces. “Jim,” I said, trying again, my touch more firm this time as I stroked his arm, pulled it away from his face to watch his reaction. He just sighed deeply and heaved, crossing his arms over his chest like he was hugging himself, his jacket whipping loose at last and flying over the end of the couch.

It was a sad, childlike gesture—and I was caught again between pissed that he was cold and out on the sofa instead of warm in our bed—or determined to wake him up nicely and then we could order in something, later. Much later. But hell—takeout always wins when you’re in college or the general equivalent. As much as I like cooking—Jim’s cooking, too, he was better at it than me and I said so, since it meant he did more. At the end of the week, you’re just too fucking tired—just not too tired to fuck. Or at least wake up your tired boyfriend to, well—not fuck, see aforethought thoughts about the lack of taking it slow and romance-- but something—I don’t know. I just didn’t like him looking all lonely there by himself.

Yeah. I was a sap. Sue me. But I wanted to wake him up—and hell, pick up where we’d left off this morning because Jim seemed to have no problem going off to class with a hard-on, but me? I felt bad that he’d blown me in the shower and I hadn’t gotten him off before he’d had to get going to class. So call me a cockslut with hearts in my eyes—I didn’t really care at the moment. He looked too frowny and curled up at the moment—some extended petting and hugging and kissing and sucking would wake him up and settle him right.

“Jim,” I tried one last time, but damned if he was going to hear me—so fine. Guaranteed wake-up it was. I unbuttoned his pants, got the zip down, got my hand into the fly of his boxers and was about to start mouthing his long, elegant dick through the fabric when he jolted—yelled—grabbed me by the shoulders and flailed, kneeing me right in the orbit before he scrambled off the couch onto all fours, staring at me as he blinked in confusion. Confusion and fear as I yelled “Jesus, Christ, Jim, the hell?” because really, you don’t try to give someone a blowjob and get conked in the head and just say “Are you okay, sweetie?” Even when that’s what you should do—because fuck, he was shaking like a damned leaf, freaked out as all hell.

“Jim, darlin’, c’mere,” I tried, talking around the pounding in my head. I eased up from where I landed on my ass on the floor onto the couch, then patted the seat next to me. “M’sorry if I freaked you out, I was just being dumb and trying a stupid sex stunt, okay?”

Jim blinked again—looked around the whole room and over his shoulder like he needed to be sure the room wasn’t going to go anywhere—before he looked back at me. And yeah—like I said. I knew he had issues. He just wouldn’t talk about them. I patted the couch cushion again—lord knew what my face looked like, I was no good at the puppy dog looks like His Highness—and said “C’mon, Jim, I’m sorry I woke you, what a damn shock.”

He shook his head like he was clearing cobwebs and nodded. His gravelly “yeah, no, it’s alright,” was confused, but after a moment he flopped into the couch—and didn’t resist when I threw an arm over him, pulled him into my side, stretched us out and tugged up the afghan. Gradually, I could feel his heart start to hammer less loudly, his tee-clad ribs against mine—though his breathing was pretty controlled, a thought that was scary as fuck for what it meant for whatever psych tests he’d gamed, privacy rules prohibiting biometric contacts but allowing cameras and all. His heart rate said nothing but _complete, utter panic._ I had no idea how long it was before Jim heaved a sigh—I’d treat my eye later, once he fell back asleep. Despite the sigh, though, I could feel he was tense—waiting for me to ask the question.

Not tonight, though.

“How come you always sleep on the couch?”

Jim startled a little, but not away—turned his head toward me and blinked like he didn’t see my eye swelling shut. “It’s our bed, why would I sleep there if you’re not in it?” He had the same stupid _alone_ look on his face that he’d had right before I’d woken him up. And here I’d been thinking I was dumb for feeling romantic. And he was kind of logical on top of everything, really.

“Come on, then. Let’s go to bed.”

Jim nodded—didn’t smile—but he scrambled off of the couch and grabbed my hand as he tugged me off to the bedroom.

If at first you don’t succeed, right?

I can sure as fuck hope.   
____

 _ETA:_ Oh my goodness.  The amazing, wonderful, epically-talented [](http://nix-this.livejournal.com/profile)[**nix_this**](http://nix-this.livejournal.com/)   drew [sleeping!Jim](http://blcwriter.livejournal.com/75241.html?thread=2247913#t2247913), (scroll past story to comments to see, I've shortened the threads) and he's absolutely fantastic.  I was just teasing about the artwork, but thank you.  Thank you so much!!!

 _ETA even more flail_ :  OMG OMG.  The fantastic [](http://northernwalker.livejournal.com/profile)[**norfolkdumpling**](http://northernwalker.livejournal.com/) made a ["This love shit is work" icon](http://blcwriter.livejournal.com/75241.html?thread=2255337#t2255337) (scroll past story to foreshortened comments).  Yeah.  I don't know why I am so lucky to have such an awesome flist, but I am not going to look gift art in the mouth.  Thank you, thank you, thank you!


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